


By This Losing Day

by littledust



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-19
Updated: 2011-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Loki told Sif the truth, and one time that he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By This Losing Day

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Tumblr for this. Also, this is the fastest I have ever written a fic, dear lord. Title nicked from Shakespeare, as one does.

The sudden downpour catches Sif and Loki by surprise. Thor, of course, charges off into the rain, laughing. "Let's find a place to wait this out," Loki suggests. Normally, Sif would be all for playing in the mud, but Mother made her promise not to ruin this dress, and it already has a rip she'll have to repair in secret.

Somehow, Loki spots the mouth to the little cave, despite the concealing brush. He has a gift for sniffing out secrets, and keeping them as well. Loki irritates Sif most of the time, but he's lied to get her out of trouble with her parents more times than she can count. They are friends, in the odd fashion of children who are together more often than not.

Once they're inside the cave, the rain only pours down harder. In the far-off distance, Sif can hear Thor calling down the thunder. She loves Thor like a brother, but he is rather an idiot about storms. "We'll be in here for a while," Loki sighs, as if sensing her thoughts. "Would you like to hear a story?"

At Sif's nod, Loki launches into a tale of thrilling deeds. Another of Loki's gift is storytelling, and Sif smiles as she digs out the needle and thread she carries around out of necessity. It is only after the fifth time she stabs herself in the finger that she loses her temper. "Cursed needle! Cursed _dress_!"

"Let me," Loki says, and it isn't fair how easily he works with needle and thread. Sif wonders how many others have seen _this_ particular gift: it isn't exactly befitting a son of Odin. The tear is soon mended.

"Thank you," Sif says.

For some reason, Loki flushes. "It was no trouble at all."

*

Sif runs, legs and arms pumping in perfect time, a warrior's stride. Her heart is in her throat, however, and it is in danger of spilling over. She kneels in a dusty corner of the library, as far away from the practice grounds as she can get, and she braces herself against the onslaught of rage and sorrow, teeth clenched so hard that her jaw aches.

She hears the footfalls echoing on the tile, but she makes no effort to hide. Let him see her in her wounded pride. She sought sanctuary here, in Loki's favorite haunt, because if anyone will understand what it is to be an outsider in one's home, it is he.

"I thought warriors never run away."

"They would make me a vessel for children and nothing more!" Sif dashes angry tears from her eyes. She cannot face him in her weakened state. She is willing to speak to him, but no more. No more. "I never should have let Thor sneak me into the contest."

Loki makes a slight noise of amusement, and she can picture his wry smile. "Thor doesn't understand why they would say a woman cannot fight." Then: "I do."

Sif whirls, rising to her knees as her fists clench. She is on the verge of shouting, of pummeling him for insult as she did when they were children, but his expression stops her in her tracks. There is a gentleness to it that belies his words.

"I never said that I agree with their reasons," Loki says, taking a hesitant step forward, having long ago learned to fear her wrath. "They are fools to not see your strength." He smiles at her, all green-eyed sincerity, and she stifles the urge to catch her breath. "Besides, you won."

"I did win." Sif's smile is knife-edged, but oh, it's keen. "Come. Watch me claim my prize."

*

Sif's breastplate hits the ground with a clang after she unbuckles it. At the beginning of her training, she took great care of her armor, polishing it until she could see a proud warrior's reflection. Her reflection. Now she still keeps her gear in perfect condition, but she's been a student of battle long enough to leave vanity behind. Armor is not for play.

But it's damned impossible to stand in midsummer.

Finally, she has the last of it off, and then she peels off her sweat-stained clothing. The river is cool on her bare feet, and she wades in further, sighing as she starts to feel like a person again, rather than some collection of aching muscles. She takes a breath and plunges underwater, eyes open to the strange and blurred world underneath the surface, and comes up again for air.

Summer has become delightful again. Sif does a lazy backstroke in circles, careful not to let the current carry her too far. The sun casts dappled shadows through the trees, the water is clear as glass, and she has her first free afternoon in six days. When a bird bursts into song nearby, she does not bother to contain her smile.

Her peace is ruined by the crack of a twig.

Sif is on her feet in moments, arms crossed over her chest as she scans the shoreline. Staring straight at her is none other than Loki, eyes wide and his face scarlet. Sif curses and scrabbles about for the nearest rock, attempting to pick it up with her feet so she can shield herself.

"Sorry, sorry!" he shouts, covering his face. "I didn't mean to! I swear by--"

"Liar!" Sif shouts back, giving up and moving as fast as she can towards shore. She leans down and scoops up some rocks, baring herself. "Get a good hard look while you can!" she taunts, and hurls the first missile with all her strength.

"Ow!" Loki cries. "Fine! I'm leaving!" He takes to his heels, clutching his shoulder, and it is then that Sif is able to spare him a little pity. Not much, though: she saw him staring. Her cheeks heat at the memory, and she dives back into the water to cool off once more.

*

The song of battle still rings in her ears when they return, flushed with triumph. Sif throws back her head and bares her teeth in a wolf's laugh as Thor recounts how many trolls he struck down with his hammer. They are blooded warriors now; they are immortal, unquenchable.

"It's amazing how often your excursions end in these little skirmishes," Loki says, voice dry, but even he is smiling. Then his eyes narrow. "Sif. You're bleeding."

"It will be a fitting scar," Sif replies, and then her legs buckle beneath her.

What follows is a confused blur of shouting friends and the touch of healers. Sif sleeps, wakes, sleeps again. She opens her eyes and finds Loki beside her bed, face wan with exhaustion.

"Was anyone else wounded?" Sif asks, alarmed. There is no cause for him to look so pale over her. It was foolish of her to put off seeking a healer for arm, true, but the wound was not life-threatening. She glances at her shoulder: yes, it will make a fine scar indeed.

"That was terribly stupid," Loki says, biting off the end of each word.

"There was no danger of me dying." Sif sits up to prove her point, ignoring the brief spell of vertigo.

"There is no _need_ for you to be here. Why didn't you ask for a healer right away, you fool?"

Sif bristles. "I wanted to share the triumph! I didn't want anyone saying that it's no surprise that the woman needs a healer! And I admit it, I didn't think, but what cause have you to lecture me so?"

Loki stills, looking anywhere but her face. "I don't like seeing you like this," he says, so quiet that Sif has to strain to hear him. "You're so--alive."

Her irritation fades, and she lays a hand over where his is clenched around her bedsheets. "And I am alive still, Loki." She can scarcely believe this soft voice is her own, but it matches the softness that fills her heart whenever Loki lets her glimpse his inner self, glimpses that have become all too rare. "I live." Sif takes a deep breath and pulls him into a kiss.

Loki's response is immediate and enthusiastic: he sits on the edge of her bed and cups her face, drawing her closer. Sif smiles into the kiss and slides her tongue into his mouth, his surprise sweet against her lips.

*

"I," Thor announces with great solemnity, "feel like singing."

This is met with groans from the company, save for Loki, who bursts into derisive laughter. Sif spares him a sharp glance and he quiets. Sif fears nothing save for the growing animosity Loki feels for his brother. He loves him as much as ever, but there are days when Sif wonders if he hates him, too. But she brushes this thought to the side once more: it is absurd, the product of a night of drinking.

"Good night," she bids her friends. She sees Loki continue walking down the corridor with the others, but unseen hands massage her shoulders. Master of illusion indeed. "That feels wonderful," she sighs, and opens the door to her chambers.

They waste no time undressing each other, fingers seeking buttons and buckles as their mouths meet in fever-hot kisses. Mead makes Sif feel every whisper of fabric, every breath of air, every brush of Loki's long fingers. She knots her fingers in his hair and sends him crashing into her bed, laughing against her sheets.

Sif nips his neck, laughing with him but also in relief that he still can laugh. Loki is difficult for even her to find of late. Too often these days their lovemaking is desperate, silent save for their breathing.

Loki flips her over, and the laughter follows a line down the length of her body as he presses kisses to her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. All the bawdy jokes their friends make about what one may do with a silver tongue is nothing compared to the reality. He spreads her wide and laps at her clit in light teasing strokes, until she's groaning and promising him dire fates if he doesn't _touch_ her.

"But I _am_ touching you," he says, insufferable, and so she pulls him by the hair for the second time that night to pin him beneath her. She locks her thighs around him, panting, and sinks onto his cock, so slowly that it is his turn to curse and writhe. She rakes her nails lightly down his chest, smirking, and rolls her hips just once.

Tormenting Loki is one of her chief pleasures still, but it isn't long before their hips are moving in time, in a dance older than the gods. Loki shudders in ecstasy, trembling on her bed, and then his hands are on her, fingers sure, and Sif's eyes slam shut as she comes.

Sif presses a kiss against his mouth before she gets out of bed to retrieve her hairbrush. The lassitude tugging at her limbs means sleep is not far off, and she has learned through experience not to leave the knots in her hair until the morning. Loki watches her braid her hair through half-lidded eyes, and the smile on his face speaks of contentment deeper than words. Sif averts her eyes, embarrassed to be the subject of such a gaze.

When she looks up a moment later, the expression is gone as if it had never been.

*

Sif refuses to stand by and watch her world be wounded to match the heart of its king. She demands a private audience with Loki after her public one is met with failure. The guards part without complaint, and she throws the doors to his chambers open with a satisfying _bang_.

"You're almost as predictable as my brother," Loki says.

He doesn't look like himself in all his trappings of office. Sif meets his eyes, willing herself to penetrate the coolness she finds there. It's as though Loki hides behind a wall of ice, so thick she can see herself reflected in its rime. "I seek a second audience with my king," she replies.

"So I gathered. To what end?" The corners of his mouth move up in a parody of his usual smile. "You and the Warriors Three can demand it all you like, but Thor will never return to Asgard. He is a dangerous fool."

"He is your brother!" Sif cries, and she longs for the days where she and Loki could work out their differences through a few punches. She takes a breath, reminding herself of what she came here to accomplish, and then she sinks to her knees.

Loki's shock makes him once more look like the person she has known her whole life.

"I have come to beg of you to reconsider," Sif says, tears pricking her eyes. This time she lets Loki see her face, lets him see all. "If your love for your brother is not enough to move you, I beg of you to do this for the--for the love you bear me." She swallows. "For the love I bear you."

He reaches out a shaking hand as if to touch her, as if all the world is within his grasp, but then he checks the movement, bringing his arm sharply back to his side. "Such confessions my brother's exile wrings! Dear Lady Sif, you overestimate my regard for you." His face is shuttered like a house against a blizzard. "I do not love you. I never have," he rasps.

 _Liar,_ screams every fiber of Sif's being, but she does not know where the truth ends and the lie begins. Her hands clench and unclench, numb. "Then I will take my leave," she hears herself saying, as if from a great distance.

He has turned away now, staring out the window into the endless expanse of night. "So you shall."

Sif has never been one for dramatics except for those which happen by way of her temper, and she closes the doors quietly behind her. "I'll save both of you," she promises in a whisper, leaning her forehead on the dark wood. "I don't know how, but I'll find a way."

As she walks down the hall, Sif girds herself for battle.


End file.
